The River's Bride
by DepthsOfMySubconsciousness
Summary: A photo session for a new bride ends in tragedy. She is believed to be drowned, though her body is not found. Boromir, on his journey to Imladris, finds her at the crossing of the great river Greyflood. She must choose between her world and the husband she left behind, or find her place in Middle Earth. Not a 10th walker & (hopefully!) not a Mary-Sue. Mash-up of book & movie world
1. Chapter One

**The River's Bride - Chapter One **

LOTR fanfiction

Boromir/OC, Romance/Adventure

* * *

As Boromir crested the top of the grassy knoll, he tightened the leather reins of his bay mare to pull her to a stop. He gazed at the river valley far below him, golden sunlight slanting over the bleached ruins of the ancient city of Tharbad and casting long fingers of shadow to the east. Beyond the disarray of white stones scattered in the long grasses stretched the wide expanse of the Greyflood. The shattered remains of a great bridge rose from the shallow depths of the river. Boromir gazed upon the still waters of the river, and gave thanks that it was autumn. In spring or early summer, the Greyflood would have been impassable with its banks swollen to empty all the flood waters of the Misty Mountains into the distant western sea. Boromir swiftly crushed the whisper in his mind that suggested perhaps he would see his beautiful, proud city of Minas Tirith fall into decay and fading memory like this ruined stronghold of the Númenóreon people.

Pressing the heels of his riding boots into his mount's sides, he urged her to a trot. He leaned back in the saddle as she flew down the gently-sloping hill. Without leave from her master, Wolfsbane pulled to a sudden stop just before the first stone in the clearing. Boromir swore harshly, tightening his thighs around her to avoid being thrown from the saddle.

His grey eyes flicked around to take in his surroundings, searching for the source of Wolfsbane's distress. He held his breath as he blocked out the sound of his horse's breathing, searching the growing shadows for any sign of threat. The silence seemed to grow in his mind along with the feeling of being watched. The gentle breeze he had felt at higher ground was absent here, and all felt frozen and dead. _Though the spirits of those long gone live here still_, his mind helpfully supplied. Shaking his head in disbelieving annoyance at that renegade thought, Boromir urged his horse forward.

The warhorse shook her head, her dark mane flying, in a rare show of fearful disobedience. His resolve hardened by her refusal, he dug his heels into her, barking out a sharp "Hee-ya!" Bolting into a brisk canter, she weaved between fallen stones and leapt effortlessly over crumbling foundations. Reaching the riverbank and plunging into the grey waters, she slowed her pace. Unable to resist the strong impulse to glance behind him to the east, where numerous burial-mounds marked the final resting places of forgotten nobility, Boromir barely suppressed a shudder. Though he would have loathed to admit it, he was glad to see this oppressive city of ghosts pass behind him.

The cold waters rose to his thighs, drawing his attention to the opposite bank. Wolfsbane found her feet again, her strong front knees rising above the water. Boromir spied a distant spot of white at the edge of the water. Rising up in his saddle for a better view, Boromir squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun reflected from the surface of the water. His mind logically concluded that it was merely a white brick from the ruined bridge pushed downstream from the powerful currents of a spring melt, yet he felt an inexplicable urge to investigate. Turning his horse's head to the right, he altered his course to draw nearer.

Intaking his breath in a sharp gasp, Boromir threw himself from the saddle. Running to the figure laying face-down in the water, Boromir hesitantly grasped a shoulder covered in a fine white lace and turned the unconscious female onto her back. A lump rose in his throat at the sight of the woman's death-white face and full mouth tinged blue with cold. Her head and arms had been resting on a flat stone, keeping her face above the surface of the water. Boromir slipped his arms under her upper back and behind her knees, her long skirts heavy with water dragging behind them. He feared her to be long-dead.

Calling Wolfsbane to follow behind them, the Gondorian soldier took long strides to the edge of the evergreen forest. He struggled to hold her upright against his body with one arm as his other hand fumbled at the ties of his cloak. He released the breath he didn't realize he was holding at the feeling of her warm breath at his throat. Spreading out his cloak with the thick fur facing up, he gently laid her down, her head falling to one side away from him.

Boromir concluded from her fine yet exotic-looking dress that she was a lady from a high-born family. A lady many leagues from any human settlement. Snapping out of his dumbfounded trance, Boromir rushed into the woods to search for dry deadwood to build a fire. Night was quickly approaching, and if she was to survive, he must get her warm and dry immediately.

* * *

Joyce turned her head away from the sunlight glowing from behind her eyelids, and pulled the blanket up over her face in a vain attempt to stay asleep longer. Her green eyes shot open, as she registered that the material brushing against her nude body was a soft _fur. _Every inch of her body thrumming with adrenaline, she sat up quickly. Holding the bearskin cloak to her chest, her wide eyes took in her surroundings. A bay mare stood beneath a great evergreen, nipping at the short grass in the small clearing. Beyond the circle of trees, she could see the silver shimmer of the river. She gasped as she remembered struggling to stay afloat in the cold water; fighting against the weight of her wedding dress and the strength of the current pulling her under. At the sudden intake of breath, there was a sharp pain under her ribs, and she went into a coughing fit, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

A hand fell on her bare shoulder, as a broad-shouldered man with shoulder-length dark hair entered her field of sight. Acting instinctively in her vulnerable state, she lashed out. His nose broke with a cracking noise, and he drew back. He held his large hand over his bleeding nose, his eyes wide with surprise. Joyce stumbled to her feet, pulling the cloak tightly around her nude body. They stared at each other in silence, as she slowly backed away to the edge of the clearing. Joyce's thoughts were a thundering chaos in her mind; quickly coming to disturbing conclusions. Her eyes flicked around the clearing they were in, spotting her dress hanging on a low branch behind him. She quickly glanced over her shoulder at the thick growth of the forest, making sure to keep him in her peripheral vision. As he slowly rose to his feet, his hands stretched towards her in entreaty, he spoke in a soft, even tone, as though trying to calm a skittish horse: "My lady, I mean you no harm.. Let me – "

She suddenly bolted, throwing herself between two closely knit pine trees. Swearing under his breath, Boromir rushed after her. He had lost sight of her, but her bare feet left an easy path for him to follow even if he had been deaf to her loud crashing through the underbrush. She was surprisingly fleet-footed for a woman, but Boromir's long stride was slowly beginning to gain on her.

Joyce silenced her cries of pain as her soft soles seemed to find every buried stone and sharp stick. She struggled desperately against the grasping branches that tore at her long auburn hair and the bearskin wrapped around her body. Her breath came in shaky gasps as she ran in a desperate escape, her lungs burning and aching. She was pulled back sharply, and her quivering heart leapt into her throat. Glancing back, she was relieved when she saw the cause. The fur cloak had merely been snagged by a thorn bush. Turning back, she reached to untangle it from its captor. Then, hearing heavy footsteps approaching, she glanced up. The man had followed after her; a dark expression on his face. Panicked, she pulled at the cloak with both hands. Looking back to him, fear coiled in her belly as she noticed how tall and strong he seemed. As he drew nearer, her survival instincts overrode her modesty, and she released the cloak to turn and run.

Boromir stopped dead in his tracks as she abandoned his cloak to the thorn bush and continued to run. She was like a wild nymph of legend; thick waves of red streaming behind her, and her fair, shapely body glowing with beautiful vitality. He felt his loins throb in response to her nudity, as he remembered his many sexual encounters with bar wenches, low-born widows, farmers' daughters, or the prostitutes that often trailed after soldiers. _She is a lady_, he reminded himself harshly. _Frightened and in need of your protection. _Angrily ripping his cloak from the thorn bush's grasp, he stomped after her, his high leather boots falling with soft thumps on the forest floor.

Joyce ran; ignoring her torn and bloody feet, and the sharp pains in her breast. She struggled to catch her breath; becoming winded far more easily than usual. She ducked, nearly bent half-over, to pass under low, sweeping branches. The way before her was barred; the undergrowth too thick, and dead trees that had fallen in a criss-cross pattern. They would not admit her passing. The only way out was back.

She heard the trees behind her rustle, and she spun on her heel to find the silhouette of the large man blocking her escape route. Easily falling into her fighter's stance, she glared with narrowed eyes at her attacker. Joyce knew that her one chance against him was to hit hard and hit fast, and then run like the wind. She blinked in surprise when she realized that he stood before her with his eyes averted from her nude form, the bearskin cloak held open in front of him like a peace offering.

"My lady, I beg you: do not run any longer. I mean you no harm. You are ill; take my cloak and be warm."

At his words and gentle demeanor, an overwhelming sense of relief warmed her body. She was so _tired _and needed to trust him in her weakened state. She ignored the lingering suspicion in her mind. Her hand trembled with exhaustion as she reached hesitantly for the fur. She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, folding her arms in front and grasping the top edge of the cloak against her collarbones. She realized she was gasping for breath; a wet, gurgling sound in her throat. She bent as a coughing fit grasped hold of her; her rib cage spasming painfully. Tears pricked in her eyes as her dry hacking continued. Finally, her stomach contracted violently, and she began to heave; emptying a surprising amount of river water onto the moss growing at her feet. Feeling his heavy hand on her shoulder, she slowly raised, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

Extreme fatigue began to overcome her as she swayed on her feet; the edges of her vision blurring and dissolving into shadow. The man grasped her upper arms tightly, speaking soundless words; his grey eyes burning into her. She murmured some nonsense like a child dreaming, and then slipped into darkness.

* * *

He watched as she tossed and turned in the midst of her fever, still wrapped tightly in his cloak. Her skin shone a pale gold in the firelight, with drops of sweat dotted on her forehead and upper lip. But her cheeks flamed as hot as the hair framing her face. Her brow contorted and her mouth twisted in troubled grimaces. She murmured under her breath; senseless ramblings that he could not hope to decipher.

He took a rag moistened by the ice-cold river water and gently pressed it to her cheeks, and then laid it on her burning brow. At his soothing touch, she ceased her restless movements, and her breathing deepened. _I am made a nurse-maid for this woman, _Boromir thought in wry amusement. Though he knew that he had saved her life by doing so, he still felt shamed at the thought of stripping her wet dress from her unconscious body. As a man of honour, he did his best to avoid looking at or touching her bare skin. Her fine dress was now dry, but he would not violate her honour again without need. The task of dressing was left to her when she felt well enough. _If she recovers, _Boromir reminded himself pragmatically. _I am no healer, and it would be a wonder if she did not catch her death of cold in that river. _

His thoughts wandered as he puzzled over her mystery; how she had come to be in the river, what had happened to her, why she was hundreds of leagues from any human settlement, where her family was… If he was a superstitious man, he would entertain the thought that she was the materialized spirit of a Númenóreon woman sent to entrap him and lure him to his grave. Boromir tipped back the skin to take a long drink of wine, and then resumed staring into the fire; the leaping tongues of flame mesmerizing him.

* * *

**Author's Note: I put a high value on realism in my stories (even though it IS fantasy fiction!). A couple reviewers mentioned that they did not like the mention of Boromir's sex life in this story. This is an M rated story.. so there is going to be violence, sex & occasional unpleasantness. I picture Middle Earth being kind of like a Medieval Europe.. just with less religious fanaticism & actual magic & mythical creatures. So that means sexism and double standards. I was trying to point out the duality of Boromir's view of women... higher class women are viewed as angel-like fragile creatures of beauty & virtue, while the lower class women are viewed as sexual objects to be used. While I believe Boromir is a good man, he DOES have flaws. He would never rape or sexually harass a woman, and he would always behave in a respectful & honourable manner towards women. However, I believe it is highly unrealistic for him to be a virgin or not be satisfying his needs on a regular basis. Virginity was valued in unmarried women, not men (unless you are a priest or monk). And being a captain & the steward's son (as well as being damn sexy), he would have many willing partners. As for the prostitutes, it was common for "ladies of the night" to follow armies around to offer their "services." Of course, Boromir's status would allow him to have first pick & his subordinates would get his "sloppy seconds." Feel free to message me if you have any questions or comments about this or anything else. :)**


	2. Chapter Two

The River's Bride - Chapter Two

LOTR fanfiction

Boromir/OC, Romance/Adventure

* * *

In that blissful state between dreams and waking, her mind was reluctant to face the reality awaiting her. She fought to stay asleep, because a part of her wished to stay in happy denial of her precarious situation. Upon remembering, the cobwebs began to clear from her groggy mind, and she knew that she must wake.

Cautiously peeking out from under her eyelashes, Joyce saw the same forest clearing as before. The last rays of sunlight were retreating from the coming night, throwing up banners of coral and pink as a momentary distraction. The chill of the hard packed earth rose through the thick cloak she layed upon, and gathered in her weary bones. Scorch marks and blackened embers marked the remains of a campfire not far from her.

She heard a rustling in the long grasses behind her, and twisted her neck to look. The same bay mare, with a white stripe down the length of its nose nipped at the vegetation. Its rider, however, was absent. His round shield sat propped up against the trunk of a fir tree. Sitting up, she recalled that she was nude upon seeing her ruined wedding dress hanging from the branch of an elm tree. She attempted to stand, but like a newborn calf, her legs collapsed from underneath her and she fell back onto her bottom.

"Please rest, my lady."

She startled at the deep voice, and hastily covered herself with the fur-lined cloak. _Though it hardly matters now, _she told herself wryly, recalling how she had run through the forest bare-assed before him.

In her calmer state of mind, Joyce gave him a good look over, feeling as though she has stepped back in time. He wore some kind of sleeveless leather trench coat, the hem splattered with mud. Emerging from beneath deep red sleeves embroidered with gold thread was silver chainmail. Leather gauntlets reached up to his elbows, and his left hand rested on a great white horn tipped with silver. On his left hip was also slung a great sword, the tip of its scabbard reaching past his knees. _Obviously some kind of medieval role player_, she thought, _and dedicated enough to keep his hair long and grow a full beard too._

She tried to speak, but her throat was dry and sore. A soft croak was the only sound that escaped her windpipe. Anticipating her need, he crouched before her, handing her the water skin he had just filled with river water. Throwing her head back, Joyce drank greedily as he watched. Catching her breath, Joyce licked her chapped lips.

"I'm Joyce Sutherland. There should be search parties looking for me now…" she told him, her voice tapering off as she wondered how long it has been since she disappeared.

"Well met, Lady Joyce. It _is _a joy to be of service to a lovely damsel in distress such as yourself."

_Oh boy_, Joyce thought to herself, suppressing the strong urge to roll her eyes. _He really is serious about staying in character…_

"Boromir is my name; son of Denethor II, Steward of Gondor, and Captain of the White Tower," he told her proudly, puffing out his chest.

At his name, Joyce felt a spark of recognition, and something familiar teasing at the edge of her mind. She quickly shook it off as he continued to speak to her.

A shamed look passing his face, Boromir told her: "May I offer my deepest apologies, my lady, for offending you. You were soaked through to the bone and near death. I would not have removed your gown otherwise. On my honour I swear to you that I did not touch or look upon your exposed flesh in your vulnerable state."

Joyce waved off his apology. "No worries. I must have been in a state of hypothermia…. and now… I bet I have pneumonia… that's why it hurts to take a deep breath."

Boromir frowned at her strange and incomprehensible speech, beginning to suspect she was quite mad, even without being in a feverish state.

"Thank you for taking care of me," she told him politely, before her eagerness caused her to say in quick succession: "How close to Ottawa are we? Do you have a satellite phone, by any chance?"

"Ode-a-waa?" Boromir asked her, his tongue tripping over the strange syllables.

"Ottawa," she corrected him.

"Ottawa." Boromir repeated after her more confidently. "Is that the name of the country you hail from?"

Joyce squinted at him in disbelieving annoyance. _Is this guy for real? _"Uhhh….no," she replied testily, quickly losing her patience. "Ottawa? You know, the capital of Canada?!"

"Ah," Boromir sighed. "You are a great distance from home, Lady Joyce. I have never heard of the kingdom of Canada."

"Look," she told him, her voice rising in anger. "This isn't funny anymore. Stop fucking around. I was having a photoshoot done by Foresters Falls in the Ottawa River and the current pulled me into the rapids. So if you have a satellite phone, _let me use it_, because there will be search parties out looking for me right now!"

Aware of her growing panic, Boromir spoke slowly and softly, in an attempt to calm her. "My lady, I assure you, the river from whence I carried you is called the Greyflood. If I possessed a… sat-light foon, I would allow you to make use of it. However, I have never heard tell of such a device in my lifetime."

Joyce felt tears of frustration starting to fill her eyes, and she blinked furiously to avoid crying in front of him. She could feel his stare, looking at her as if _she _was the crazy one. _He's harmless… I think… but clearly delusional. _

A large hand with long, thick fingers entered her field of vision as she stared at her lap with sightless eyes. Blinking, she realized that he was offering her food. Two thick strips of smoked meat, and a round biscuit of some kind. She took them, her soft fingers brushing against the rough calluses of his palm, murmuring her thanks. Biting into the tough meat, she tore off a bite-size piece with difficulty. Her jaw sore from the seemingly endless chewing required, she stared gloomily into the fire he was building. _As soon as I can walk, I am coming back to you, _Joyce vowed, her heart hardened with determination.

* * *

The days and the passing scenery seemed to overlap and meld together as they passed Joyce by, sitting high on Boromir's horse. She could feel her body steadily gaining strength as she feigned weakness so that he would let his guard down. She waited for the perfect opportunity to slip away from him, though her impatience caused her to constantly shift and fidget. Sensing her unease, the warhorse became restless as well, prancing in a spirited manner as it walked.

Joyce ground her teeth as she remembered her aborted attempt at escape; how he restrained her, although gently, insisting that she stay with him in some misguided chivalry attempt to 'protect' her. She laughed bitterly at the irony of her being saved and protected by a man.

Years ago she had learned the hard way that only she could save herself. That was a huge reason why she loved Andrew… he alone never attempted to 'save' her. He was the only one to truly accept her, in all her fucked-up glory; to just let her _be_. And now he must be worried sick about her… wondering if she was alive or… Joyce glared at Boromir's back as he led Wolfsbane, her fury burning white-hot at being trapped with him.

_At least we are following the river_, she tells herself in an attempt to calm down. _Sooner or later we will come across people, or a town. And then I can ditch this cosplay freak. _Sighing, she admitted to herself that he has been kind to her. Also that he is pleasant to look at; a nice diversion from her plight. _That's usually how it goes_, she reminded herself. _If they're sexy and charming, then they're either crazy or an asshole, or both. But damn, he has a nice butt. _Feeling a little guilty, she brought up a mental image of Drew's smiling face, his eyes glowing with love for her.

As the trees begin to thin out to give way to grasslands, Joyce noticed a range of distant mountains appearing on the edge of the horizon. Confusion and panic flooded her, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. Her hands trembled, as she twisted her wedding band in agitation. Staring at the blue mountains rising higher and higher into the sky as they drew nearer, Joyce finally found her voice.

"Wha— those mountains!" She shouted out, her voice cracking. "Where are we?!"

Glancing back at her with a curious look, Boromir answered, "Those are the Misty Mountains. They stretch down to the south where they meet the Gap of Rohan."

_What the fuck_. _Maybe I am crazy after all. Is this even real? Am I hallucinating? No, _she told herself in a firm manner. _I have to be in BC. He abducted me. At least I know that I have to be in Canada. No way he was able to cross the border with a random unconscious woman without a passport… I have to leave tonight, no matter what. He's more dangerous than I thought…_

With that thought, she spied movement out of the corner of her eye, and rose up in the saddle to have a better look. She saw a group of people in the distance, walking in single file towards the dark boundary of the forest stretching to the north-east. Glancing towards Boromir ahead of her, she realized that he could not see them over the tall golden grasses that were swaying in the gentle breeze. Looking back towards the distant figures, she squinted, trying to make them out in the twilight. She longed to urge the horse into a gallop, but it was too great a risk with Boromir still holding the reins. Her heart sank as she watched them grow farther and farther away, their paths diverging. Boromir was never far from her side after her aborted escape attempt, and he would easily run her down even if she did manage to slip away.

Staring gloomily into the water flowing past her, she realized they were following the river _upstream_. She berated herself harshly, her temper sparking at her own stupidity. The Ottawa River flowed west-to-east, not east-to-west as this river did. That obvious fact had somehow slipped her mind amid all the stress of her situation. She could have realized the seriousness of her predicament _days _ago. It shouldn't have taken the appearance of a mountain range that didn't belong for her to figure it out.

Joyce had never been in British Columbia before and was unfamiliar with the geography of the area. _How far to the nearest city? How far north are we? This may the last time I see any other people… He may drag me deep into the woods to live with him. He probably even believes that I am __his__ bride. _Looking down at her lace and satin gown, she grimaced at the hem blackened from dragging in the dirt, and the yellow stains under her arms and at the sweetheart neckline. She longed to rip the lace ¾ sleeves off. She longed for a hot shower. She longed for… Her eyes widened as a brilliant idea sparked in her mind.

"Boromir," she called sweetly.

He halted, turning to look over his shoulder at her. The fading light had cast half of her fair face in shadow, and his heart squeezed tight momentarily to see her sitting high on his horse. "Yes, my lady?"

_He thinks I'm a lady? I'll give him a princess, _Joyce thought, struggling to not let her evil smirk break through her sweet and innocent expression. Speaking in a haughty tone and looking down her nose at him, she spoke clearly, enunciating every syllable: "We have been riding for days, and I simply cannot tolerate these conditions any longer. I _must _have a bath."

Boromir raised his eyebrow at her tone and body language, eying her warily. "My lady.."

"No," she said in a strangely calm voice with a hint of warning simmering under the surface. "My dress is ruined already, but I refuse to sit in dirt and my own sweat any longer."

Boromir's gaze flickered to the lace of her skirt lying flat over Wolfsbane's hindquarters to trail its long train just above the reach of black hooves. The fabric shifted as she threw one leg over and slipped from the saddle. Boromir rushed to her side to take her elbow as she wobbled on her temporarily paralyzed legs.

"Ahh, ahh..." she moaned softly, stomping her feet to rid herself of the prickling sensation. "I'm fine," she snapped, pulling her arm from his grasp harshly. Planting her feet wide apart and crossing her arms over her chest, she lifted her chin to look up at him in defiance. "I am not moving from this spot. I _will _have my bath."

"Lady Joyce, we still have an hour of daylight remaining to travel by. This is not an appropriate site to make camp."

"I don't care," she pouted, acting every inch the spoiled rich girl. "You cannot treat a _lady _like this!"

Sighing in resignation, Boromir admitted defeat to himself. Deciding to break camp early on the morrow, he turned from her to untack the horse. Loosening the leather strap passing under Wolfsbane's thick barrel chest, he murmured, "Whatever my lady desires."

Before he could change his mind, Joyce hurried down the steeply sloping riverbank, parting the tall golden leaves of grass with her hands. She jumped at the sound of his voice behind her.

"Do not stray far, Lady Joyce."

She was relieved to see that the thick growth of the grass plains hid her from his view, though he sounded very close. She could just spot the pointed tips of Wolfsbane's ears twitching to keep the flies off.

"Lady Joyce?"

"I will call if I need help!" she shouted nervously, fearing that he would begin to suspect her deception at any moment. Scanning the wall of plant life whispering in the light breeze, she paused to listen for sound of his movements. Hearing nothing, she walked downstream along the riverside to double back the way they had come. Her hands trembled as the grasses rustled to mark her passing, a slightly trampled path leading her to their camp for the night. She let her breath out in a surprised _whoosh _as she almost walked straight into Wolfsbane. _Damn_, she thought, eying the horse without a saddle or reins or bridle. Wolfsbane turned her head to the side to observe the strange woman.

Setting her face into a grim and determined expression, Joyce reminded herself that riding bareback was nothing new… she did it once at horseback riding camp when she was 12 years old. The adrenaline coursing through her veins made her feel weightless and jumpy. She could feel her pulse pounding beneath her bellybutton, and her mouth felt dry. Boromir may return at any moment, and her best chance at escape would be lost. Grasping a handful of horsehair at Wolfsbane withers, Joyce leaped onto Wolfsbane's back, and almost fell over on the other side in her enthusiastic miscalculation. "Shit!" she hissed softly. Centering herself in the concave curve of the horse's back, she pressed her right leg into its side to turn the mare towards the dark line of trees at the horizon.

She stared at the dark and forbidding peaks of the mountains rising to split the red sky, as she silently walked the horse away. Expecting to hear Boromir's voice raised in anger at any moment, she prayed fervently to whatever deity was listening that she would be able to reach the other people before Boromir caught her. Deciding that she was far enough away to risk a trot, she tapped the horse's sides with her heels. How long would he wait for her? When would he realize she was gone? Her panic overcame her caution as she urged the horse to a gallop. Joyce bounced heavily in the saddle; her horsemanship sorely lacking. She grimaced in pain and wished she had stirrups to stand up in. She leaned forward eagerly as the grasslands passed by in a blur under Wolfsbane's pounding hooves, and the dark forest drew closer. Joyce swore that she could see a red glow flickering from behind a thick growth of evergreens to the east, and she directed the dark brown mare towards the green flanks of the mountainside.

_Almost there_, she thought desperately as she heard Boromir's voice calling for her in the distance. She managed to keep her bottom lifted off the horse's back by squeezing her thighs, making the ride smoother and Wolfsbane run impossibly fast at the same time. _Almost there_, her mind repeated feverishly. At that moment, Boromir's shrill whistle cut through the still evening. Wolfsbane pulled to a stop, rearing up a little and tossing her head.

"NO!" Joyce snarled, kicking the horse sharply. But Wolfsbane turned to answer her master's call, even though Joyce pulled at her mane and tried to turn her back in growing panic. As Wolfsbane began to pick up her pace, Joyce stared wild-eyed at the light growing farther away. Three figures had emerged, standing at the edge of the woods in shadow, watching her in silence. Knowing that this could be her best and only opportunity, Joyce made a snap decision. She threw herself from the mare's back, making certain to keep clear of the flashing hooves. She gasped as she landed on her shoulder badly, the sharp pain stunning her momentarily. Scrambling to her feet, she grasped handfuls of her skirt in both fists and ran towards the growing number of people gathering to watch the spectacle of her daring escape.

"Help!" she gasped out, her lungs still aching from having been near-drowned. She raised her one arm to wave at them frantically. She let out a high-pitch squeak as she tripped over the torn hem of her wedding dress and fell face-first into the dirt. Her right shoulder smarting, she pushed herself off of the ground to face the pounding footfalls rushing to her aid.

"Oh thank God," she breathed, lifting her face to gaze upon her saviors. Her stomach dropped as she realized she had made a terrible mistake.

A half-circle of tall and heavily muscled men stood before her, their black eyes hard and cruel. Their skin tanned brown from the sun, and crusted with dirt and sweat, held a pungent scent of unwashed flesh. Their hair and beards were long, matted, and thick. Their clothes were made of a rough cloth and the skins of various animals were thrown over their shoulders. In their hands they grasped crude and primitive-looking weapons. Two of the men stepped forward. Joyce shied away from them before they grasped her by the upper arms to pull her roughly to her feet. She winced as their thick fingers dug into her tender arms, no doubt leaving bruised fingerprints behind.

A man taller and wider than all the rest looked her up and down before speaking in a harsh accent that grated on her ears. "What mischief have you been up to, woman?" he sneered, his deep, rumbling voice filling her heart with trepidation. "Abandoning your duty to your husband?"

Without thinking, Joyce stammered out, "N-n-n-no."

"Ahh… then you must be his whore," he concluded, eying her exposed bosom and fitted bodice greedily.

"I'm no whore!" Joyce protested violently, her temper getting the better of her, struggling against the brute strength of the men holding her in place.

"Not only are you a liar," he reasoned. "But a horsethief as well. I am certain that your lord will be grateful if we take you off his hands."

"NO!" Joyce roared in a helpless rage, going mad in her attempt to escape their grasp.

"Oh, yes," he confirmed. "Too long has it been since a woman has warmed my bed." Attempting to reason with her, the leader of the group told her, "You would prefer to be hanged at your lord's hands for attempting to steal his most excellent piece of horseflesh? He would not be forgiving of your betrayal."

Joyce froze as the direness of her situation became clear, her body breaking out in a cold sweat. She could feel herself becoming stone; still, hard, cold and unfeeling in preparation for what surely awaited her at their hands. _Boromir! _her heart cried out in tearful regret. _He will not come_, she thought, plunging deep into despair. _I am alone in this_, she told herself, slipping into a downward spiral of depression.

* * *

**Author's Note: So not only am I a horrible person for not updating in over 2 weeks (I think?) but I also leave you with a cliffhanger! Well, at least this chapter was about 1,000 words longer than the last. Will you take that as a consolation prize? The truth is that I am a perfectionalist & feel really insecure about my writing. I feel so proud of what I have written at first, but then I get to reading other ppl's fanfics... & end up thinking that mine is horseshit in comparison.. & that I will never write as beautiful & clever as they do. And then I give up. Reviews really do help me though.. boost my self-esteem & all that. Maybe if you guys keep harassing me with messages until I give you a chapter.. that might work. I do get email notifications, so I will notice them right away. I know where I want this story to go (for the most part).. it's just my anxiety that I have to get over. I just have to force myself to get started & then it flows. Constructive criticism is welcome.. & of course, I always like to receive compliments & worship of my writing skills & brilliance. :P ;)**


	3. Chapter Three

**The River's Bride - Chapter Three**

LOTR fanfiction

Boromir/OC, Romance/Adventure

* * *

When the shortest man of the group stepped forward with loops of coarse rope in his hands for binding her, something in Joyce snapped. She shook off the dark fog laying over her mind as he drew closer, and liquid fury coursed through her veins, lending her strength. Pulling her lips back in a feral snarl, she leaned back against the men who held her arms to thrust her knee high. Her leg snapped out to kick the approaching man under the jaw, and his head was thrown back, dropping the rope at his feet. She twisted her left arm out of the hand that had loosened in surprise, and rotated on the balls of her feet to throw her fist into the throat of the man on her right. He fell to his knees, choking and gasping; clutching his throat. The leader of the band of men roared, his face nearly purple in his rage, as Joyce delivered a roundhouse kick to the balls of the man on her left who had restrained her.

She turned to run, but was yanked back by a tight fist in her long hair. Yelping in pain and terror, she was thrown onto her back before one of the men restrained her by pinning her with his body. Stifled and suffocated beneath him, she struggled feverishly; driven to a panic by her inability to breathe. His weight was crushing her ribcage; she could not draw breath. She could not speak or cry out; all air having been driven from her lungs by the shock and force of being thrown down.

All that she was and all that she knew fled from her mind in her desperate struggle to survive. In her animalistic hysteria, she bit down on the flesh of his exposed shoulder. Swearing loudly, he drew back his heavy fist to hit her at the temple. Her body immediately slackened; her vision swimming as her ears rang. She could feel her arms being lifted above her head, as her mouth filled with an overwhelmingly salty taste; the strong urge to vomit making her gag soundlessly.

When the colourful spots and black haze finally faded from her vision, she was lifted to her feet, her wrists tightly bound and her head spinning. Joyce swallowed thickly, the taste of blood filling her mouth. Her temples throbbed as her mind wandered in distracted confusion.

Drew's mouth moved in a soundless shout; his message to her vitally important but lost in her delirium. The sound of a plaintive whine surrounded her, and she could not figure out whether it was herself making that sound, or her dogs. They thought she had abandoned them, and were going hungry in their misery. Her heart broke as they looked up at her with their liquid eyes. Five sets of brown and blue canine eyes merged and morphed into the grey eyes of Boromir. _Didn't I swear to protect you? _he asked her in an accusing tone. _Now by your own foolishness will you suffer and die. No! _she cried. She struggled to keep fighting, to _live_, but her dress was so _heavy_ and the current was pulling her under again. The ice-cold water of the river rushed down her gasping throat, and she could feel it entering her lungs. She couldn't resist the instinct to _breathe _and she could feel the water spreading outwards, reaching every corner and capillary of the starved organs. It spread through her body as an irresistible warmth, and she closed her eyes in sweet surrender.

Joyce cried out as a sharp pain dug into her injured shoulder, her bare knees pressing into cold stone. "On your feet!" a harsh voice ordered, tightening his grasp on her right shoulder. She stumbled to her feet, and he pushed her forward into a walk. Though her bridal gown had been slashed to a length above her ankles at some point during her delusional semi-conscious state, she still managed to trip over her own feet. Joyce fell, scraping the heels of her hands on the sharp edges of the mountain's roots. "UP!" the voice snarled, as the man kicked her lower back to splay her forward onto the packed dirt. She tried to rise, failed, and then lay still in the dirt. The foot moved again to kick her, this time aiming for her ribs.

"That's our chieftain's woman," a second voice interrupted, blocking the blow from hitting her. "I care not what she did to your manhood. Think of what he'll do to you if you spoil her."

Joyce felt a surge of gratefulness towards him for sparing her further pain, and she fought to rise to her feet. Her head pounded angrily in protest, and she stumbled, leaning against the tall hunter weakly.

"Worry not," the man told her gruffly, lifting her and slinging her over his one shoulder. "We will not hurt you once you learn your place. You merely need to stop fighting us and submit as befits your sex."

Joyce felt as though his words should spark anger and indignation in her, but she had no strength left to resist. The men climbed the rock face of the mountain, guided only by the light of the stars. Joyce faded in and out of consciousness, soothed by the rhythmic movement of the man carrying her.

She awakened as the man slowly lowered her to her feet, ensuring that she was stable before releasing his hold. The pale light of a new dawn cast the deep fissures of the rock wall before them into shadow. Joyce surreptitiously cast her gaze around her, counting the number of men surrounding her. As they began to move forward in single file, Joyce watched in amazement as they disappeared one by one into a crack in the west wall of the mountain. As her keeper nudged her forward, she began to test the ropes that bound her. She winced as they cut into her raw wrists. She twisted and squeezed one hand with the other, attempting to slip her hand through the loop. The long, thin bones in her hands ground together.

Yanking on the length of rope joined to her two wrists, the man before her admonished her, "Cease your pointless attempts at escape. What other prospects have you?"

Glaring at him, Joyce gave up for the moment, knowing that it would take a knife to escape from her bonds. Grunting in approval of her temporary obedience, her captor drew her into the shadows hiding the passageway to the mountain men's lair. Following his lead, Joyce turned her body sideways to squeeze past the small opening between the rock walls, marveling that the robust tribal men were able to fit. Shuffling sideways with her right foot forward, Joyce could see the end of the narrow stone hallway. The man holding her rope waited patiently for her, holding back a makeshift curtain made from a large animal's skin. As Joyce passed under his thick arm, she stopped to stare.

Although the cave before her was large, its ceilings allowing ample headroom, it felt overcrowded and stuffy. In the center of the large open space was a medium size cooking fire, where a pot of bubbling stew sat on embers. Joyce's eyes stung from the thick haze of smoke curling just above her head. She hunched over in an attempt to reach the relatively fresh air at a lower altitude. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, Joyce counted another three men in addition to the group of five that she had traveled with; eight men in total now. Realizing how hopeless her situation was, her heart plummeted. Alone and outnumbered in the wilderness, captured by barbarians who would surely rape and then murder her, and far away from where anyone would even think to look for her. Clenching her fists tight amidst a sudden swell of rage, Joyce swore to herself that even if she had to play the part of the submissive female for a while, she would never give up and she _would _escape. To hide the fire burning in her eyes, Joyce lowered her gaze to her filthy white feet bare on the cold stone floor.

Her keeper led her to a fur pulled across the entrance-way of a small alcove in the dark cave. The shadows retreated into the rounded corners as he lit a series of candles resting on a little crude table carved from wood. He tugged her close to him to unravel the intricate knots with his thick fingers. Giving her a hard look and telling her to stay put, the savage man then left her alone. Rubbing her raw wrists, Joyce looked around her.

The room measured no larger than ten by fifteen feet. The walls were marked by various ridges and cracks rising to a ceiling arching high above her head into shadow. As she raised her face to peer into the darkness above her head, Joyce thought she could smell fresh air and feel a slight coolness on her face. Carefully running her hands along the walls as she circled the room, Joyce ignored the common sense voice that told her the men who held her would not be so stupid as to put her in a room with a convenient escape exit. That pointless endeavor completed, Joyce turned to search the rest of the room. Her hands explored every inch of her stone prison. The small pot in the corner was clearly used for middle-of-the-night bathroom breaks judging by its foul smell. A thick pile of furs was piled in the opposite corner, and Joyce lifted them with one arm to feel hurriedly beneath with the other hand; feeling as though her time was running out. Finding nothing of interest, Joyce eyed the small table, imagining hitting one of the men on the back of the head with it. _Or throw hot wax in his face_, she mused. _And then I'll have seven other angry men to deal with. I'll have to wait for the perfect moment. And when I do escape…this time I'll be more careful with who I trust… _

Joyce jumped involuntarily when the headman pushed aside the doorway covering and strode in boldly. He eyed her critically for a moment, his dark eyes passing over her quickly, before he thrust a wooden bowl filled with hot stew into her hands. "First you eat," he told her.

Folding her legs beneath her, Joyce sank to the furs. Without the aid of a spoon, she lifted the rim of the bowl to her lips to sip carefully. _Unlikely that they would poison me after all the trouble they went through to bring me here, _she reasoned. _And I need to keep my strength up if I am to escape. _She gazed at him over the edge of the bowl, forcing her face into a blank expression. His face was unreadable as he stared back at her, lined with age and browned from the sun. A thick black beard covered nearly half of his face, and long, wiry hair with streaks of grey reached just past his shoulders. He wore the full skin of grey wolf, its head pushed back like a hood, and its front legs pinned at his collarbone. Thick, heavily muscled arms emerged from a filthy sleeveless tunic tied with a belt that was no doubt pried from the body of a dead man. His long, toned legs were bare except for a generous amount of body hair and crude-looking leather boots reaching up to his knees. From his belt hung a dagger with a silver handle, and an old, dull axe that looked to be heavily neglected by its current owner; the cutting edge chipped and rusted. As she tipped the bowl up to drain the remaining broth, she could still feel his eyes burning into her, though he was temporarily hidden from her view. Left in the bottom was a rib bone, with pieces of meat still clinging to it. She hungrily stripped it with her teeth, holding the splintered ends with her fingertips. He waited until she set the bowl onto the side table before speaking.

"You will have a good life as my woman. You will cook, clean, mend clothes, and do other women's chores for my men. You will also bear me strong sons that will – "

"No fucking way!" Joyce snarled, her temper promptly causing her to forget her plan to appear meek and mild for the time being.

The mountain man took one large stride towards her and backhanded her across the face. The sharp sound of the slap silenced the buzzing undercurrent of sound in the other room, and Joyce's head snapped to the side from the force of the blow. Rubbing the burn out of the side of her face, Joyce's eyes sparked with an inner fire as she stared him down with hate.

"Yes," he went on, seemingly having forgotten her insurrection as soon as it had passed. "A woman such as you will bear strong sons. In time you will learn that it is easier and wiser to submit to my will." Pulling a length of dark green fabric from beneath his bent left arm, he threw it at her. "I will not have my woman smelling like a wild boar. Don this gown now, and soon we will find a way to fashion a bone needle for you to mend it."

Clenching the forest green fabric in her fists, Joyce clenched her teeth to avoid blurting out a comeback to his insult. As the curtain swayed in his passing, Joyce looked down at the luxurious full-length dress she held on her lap. Paling, she noticed the dark stains barely noticeable on the bodice of the dress, flowing down from a thin slash in the fabric near the edge of the neckline. _They may murder me yet. _Joyce's mind reeled in fright as her hands trembled, still grasping the swaths of green velvet.

She sat there for what seemed an endless amount of time, trying to take deep, slow breaths to calm herself. She felt frozen with apprehension, not wanting to undress while such brutal men were just a few steps away. Thinking of the woman who once wore the dress she held in her shaking hands, Joyce slowly rose. She attempted to step into the gown at first, before she realized her hips were too wide for her to be able to pull the dress up all the way. She would have to pull it over her head. That meant that the only possible way to get dressed insured a moment of near nudity and complete vulnerability. _It won't make a difference to them, _Joyce thought grimly. _No matter what I am wearing or not wearing, my fate will be the same… _

Forcing a heavy breath out of her lungs, Joyce rushed to get it over with as quickly as possible. As she stripped the white lace from her arms, her eyes pricked with tears as she remembered her beautiful wedding day. _I may never see him again…_ Feeling that she would be caught with the dress up around her head, Joyce struggled with the heavy layers of skirts in a near-panic. She threw her ruined bridal gown down, reaching for the dress of a dead woman. He could return at any moment as she stood there in only a bra and pair of lace panties. She slipped her arms into the close-fitting sleeves, and reached behind her to pull the laces tight. _Tonight…. It will be tonight… Why would he wait? _Her eyes darting around the room frantically, they stopped and held on the wooden bowl still resting on the table. _Of course… _she thought, the building sensation of hope and excitement causing her heart to swell.

* * *

Boromir led Wolfsbane through the forest, making an effort to pass through the thick undergrowth as silently as possible. His nerves were strung as tightly as a harp, thrumming in anticipation of the violence that surely waited for him at the end of the trail he now followed.

Sleep had eluded him the night before except for a few stolen moments as he waited impatiently for dawn. Lady Joyce's face appeared anytime he had closed his eyes, and he clenched his teeth to think that she would be meeting harm at the hands of those savage men.

By the time he had reached the clearing where the grass was trampled down and spotted with blood in her struggle, night was falling quickly. He resisted the urge to blindly ride in the direction they had gone, knowing that either he would lose the trail, or they would hear him coming from a mile away and easily lose him in the dark. He was one of the best swordsmen of Middle Earth, but even his skill and bravery would not aid Lady Joyce if the odds were against him. In the wilderness, within the borders of their territory, his might would merely scatter them like fish from a stone being thrown into a pond. No doubt they would slink back like a cowardly pack of wargs to slash and bite; dodging his counter-attacks. Boromir knew that they would not fight with honour, and this put him at a slight disadvantage.

With the pale light of morning, Boromir had found sign of five men and the remains of a recent kill in the abandoned campsite. Though the lady and the carcass would slow them down some, at that point they had had a six hours head start. Not to mention that Boromir would have to follow at a slower pace so that he would not lose their trail. They were expert woodsmen, and Boromir did not want to chance them slipping out of his grasp, Lady Joyce along with them.

Boromir fingered the hilt of his sheathed sword as he cast his gaze about him in frustration. The group of mountain men had made no effort to hide their tracks, but still their trail had ended at the borders of the rocky plains that marked the edge of the mountain range. He had searched for any sign of their passing in ever widening circles; first in haste, then again with careful determination. He made one final survey in excruciating concentration to the smallest pebble before he began to wonder if the woman had disappeared as mysteriously as she had first appeared to him.

He passed his rough palm over his sweaty brow, pushing back the wet tendrils of hair that had fallen into his eyes. He stared blindly at a rock wall; the edge of shadow chased by the falling golden sunlight. As the sparse clouds flared into soft shades of pink and purple, a shadow like a deep slash in the stone was thrown into relief by the shifting light. The sunlight filtered through the trees as the sun sunk to meet the horizon, causing a spark of light to flash in the shadow. Boromir squinted at the deep crevice in the rock wall, as he strode forward. Kneeling down, he plucked a thin gold band completely encircled with white diamonds from the dust. It was Lady Joyce's ring; a sign from her perhaps.

Staring into the gloom before him, Boromir silently withdrew his bronze-handled dagger. The reach of his broadsword would be useless and impede his movements in the narrow passageway. As the path in the stone grew too close for his broad shoulders, Boromir had to turn sideways, leading with his right foot, his dagger raised to waist level. Running his left hand along the rock wall, Boromir made slow progress to the end of the dark path. A soft glow emanated from beneath the bottom edge of the leather drawn across the entranceway. He concealed his dagger in his knee-high boot. Licking his lips, Boromir painstakingly withdrew his sword as silently as possible. His steel would taste the blood of at least five mountain men tonight.

Throwing aside the curtain, Boromir stepped into the smoky haze of the cave. At first the men crouched around a low fire took no notice of him, but when he spoke aloud in challenge, they leapt to their feet as one. The burliest of the five charged him at once, holding a dagger in one hand, and a short sword in the other. They exchanged blows as the other savage men scrambled to find their weapons in the dirty and cluttered cave. The beast of a man drew back his lips in an animalistic snarl as Boromir put him on the defensive. Out of the corner of his eye, Boromir noticed a large shadow advancing quickly upon him. Boromir slashed the first man across the abdomen, spilling his innards onto the stone floor, and spun on his heel to push aside the spear aiming for his neck. Boromir glowered at the man who had dared to attack him in such an unchivalrous manner Boromir easily evaded the thrusts of the primitive weapon, his opponent's movements becoming sloppy and panicked. The man's eyes flicked over Boromir's left shoulder as a slight smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. Thrusting his sword behind him at the level of his waist, Boromir heard the intake of breath as his unseen assailant dropped the large rock he had been holding up to smash Boromir's skull in. Withdrawing his broadsword from the thigh of the man behind him, Boromir quickly disarmed the other man, and drew his blade against his throat. Looking over his shoulder, Boromir spotted the half-naked man sprawled out on the floor, clutching his right thigh that was streaming blood. Leaving both of them to bleed out, Boromir slung his shield from his back, hastily slipping the leather straps over his forearm.

The two remaining men stood across the fire from him, their eyes squinting in dark appraisal. The one withdrew his stolen sword, while the other reached over his shoulder to withdraw a crudely made arrow. With a roar, the savage man charged at Boromir in wild abandon, swinging his sword wide. Boromir easily deflected the blows with a twist of his sword, while throwing up the shield to knock aside an arrow in flight. Boromir let his adversary push him towards the archer, who was once again taking aim. Throwing out his arm, the edge of his shield caught the archer under the chin, throwing him back.

A feminine voice cried out in alarm, and Boromir clenched his teeth to hear Joyce's distress. Throwing himself with renewed vigour into the fight, Boromir broke the savage man's rusting sword, and cleanly beheaded him with one swipe as he stumbled and fell. The archer rose from the floor to throw himself at Boromir, cursing with wild abandon. Boromir thrust his sword into the man's exposed chest. As he slumped to his knees, Boromir put one foot on the dying man's chest to wrench his blade from bone.

Striding to the doorway of the inner room, Boromir thrust aside the shroud. In the gloom, Boromir could barely make out the form of a man nearly matching him in height and breadth laying ontop of a struggling Joyce. His blood boiling at the thought of such an uncivilized man daring to touch her, he grasped the man's shoulders and roughly pulled him aside. Boromir released his hold when he realized the man was dead. His wide eyes stared sightlessly at the stone ceiling, his mouth open in a permanent expression of surprise. His neck and chest were plastered in deep red blood which had pumped from a deep puncture wound in his throat.

Boromir knelt at Joyce's side and gazed upon her grimly. "Lady Joyce," he whispered softly. Joyce's face was turned away from Boromir, her eyes squeezed shut. Her shaking hands were covered in the dead man's blood. Taking her reddened hands in his own, he felt the splintered shard of a rib bone clenched in her fist. Trying to pry her fingers open without success, Boromir spoke again, "Joyce."

"Boromir," she breathed, opening her eyes wide in a startled expression. "Boromir! You came!" she wept, throwing herself into his arms.

Boromir was astonished by the open expression of her emotions and easy affections. Gently taking hold of her by the shoulders, he leaned back to gaze upon her. "Did I not swear to protect you? If by my life or my death I can ensure your safety and happiness, I would do so."

Taking her hands into his own again, he began to pry her long fingers open. Realizing that he was trying to take her improvised weapon, Joyce clenched her fist tight again. "Lady Joyce," Boromir murmured. "You are safe now. You may release it."

Refusing to be so easily placated, Joyce's voice rushed out desperately: "Is he dead? Did I kill him?"

Misunderstanding her meaning, Boromir tried to comfort her. "Yes. But do not mourn such a vile man. You did a brave and just thing, defending yourself from his advances."

Joyce shakingly rose to her feet to stare down at the dead chieftain with contempt. "I don't regret it. He deserved to die," she spat. "I would stab him again if it would do me any good."

Boromir was briefly stunned by her passion, but he shook himself when he noticed she was trembling all over. Leading her away from the bloodied corpse, they entered the main room. Boromir gave thanks that the fire had burned low in the meantime as he navigated around the mutilated bodies, hoping that she could not see them too clearly in the deepening darkness. He was not shocked when she knelt to retrieve a dagger before the entrance, tucking it under the thin chain of gold around her waist. _A shieldmaiden she must be, to be so hardened in the face of violence._

Gazing about her, Joyce counted the number of slain men. "There are only five here," Joyce said, her voice clear in the stillness. "Where are the other two?"

Boromir tensed at her revelation, anticipating an ambush outside of the cave, or later on the trail after their guard had lowered. Boromir slung his shield onto his back, and sheathed his sword. He bent to withdraw his dagger from his boot again. Sweeping her behind him with one arm, he entered the hallway of stone first. "Stay close to me," he said in an undertone.

The sun had set by then, only the soft glow of twilight remaining. Boromir halted and tightened his grip on the handle of his dagger when a black silhouette entered the crack in the rock wall.

"Let us pass in peace if you value your life," Boromir growled in warning.

The figure paused for a moment, considering, then rushed forward. Boromir flinched away as a wooden spear was thrust at his face. Joyce grasped the end of the spear with both hands from behind Boromir, holding on tight in desperation. Boromir swiftly buried his short blade beneath the ribs of the snarling savage. Pushing the dying man onto his back, Boromir reached behind with his spare hand to help Joyce step over the body blocking the way.

"The second wild man will be waiting for us, whether to attack now or later. When he appears, you must flee into the forest to hide from him. If I live, I will call for you."

"I'm not leaving you!" Joyce told him in a fierce tone of voice.

Boromir marveled at her bravery while he inwardly swore at her foolishness. "Then stay within sight at all times, and keep your dagger at the ready. He will attack when he has the advantage."

Nodding grimly, Joyce kept her knife high and her eyes trained on Boromir's back as they continued walking. When Boromir emerged from the pass, a dark figure fell upon him from behind. Joyce screamed in mingled fear and rage and darted forward to slash. The tribal man released Boromir to attack her, Joyce's eyes widening when she recognized the man who had beaten her mercilessly.

"You dirty whore," the man yelled in a fury, throwing his fist towards her.

He yelped when Boromir grabbed his wrist in a ruthless grip and twisted his arm near to breaking. "You will revoke your vulgar words and make your apology to the lady at once," Boromir told him in an unnervingly calm voice.

"She's no lady," the brute of a man laughed in Boromir's face.

The man's face snapped to the side as Boromir slapped him. Releasing him, Boromir took a few steps back, pulling Joyce by the arm to stand behind him. Withdrawing his sword, Boromir looked the man in the eye and told him, "For insulting the lady's honour, consider your life forfeit."

The man laughed cruelly, and charged recklessly. Boromir effortlessly slashed him in a diagonal across the chest and hip, and then lopped his head off when he stumbled.

"Oh God," Joyce gagged. She turned from him to crouch on the stone, her head between her knees, trying not to vomit. "Did you really have to cut his head off? Was that really necessary?"

"You are a strange woman," Boromir told her.

Just now noticing the bloody footprints scattered all over the stone, Boromir strode to her side. "You are injured. Allow me to tend to you."

"It's just my feet. Walking barefoot in the wilderness is never a good idea," she quipped.

As she lowered herself to sit and lean back on her hands, Boromir took her bloody feet into his lap. Valiantly ignoring her slim white ankles, he grimaced upon the sight of her mangled feet. The flesh on the bottom of her feet was torn and bloodied, with dirt and gravel ground into the open wounds.

Rising, Boromir scooped her into his arms with ease, supporting her under her back and knees. She emitted this surprised sound like a baby bird peeping for food. A comely blush rose on her high cheekbones. "Ah, you don't have to carry me…"

"Would you rather limp like a cripple?" Boromir questioned her wryly.

"No…" Joyce said plaintively, feeling like she should still refuse. She felt awkward being carried by a man not her husband, not like she ever let Andrew pick her up. But Boromir was tall and broad, and had lifted her seemingly without effort or strain. Joyce opened her mouth to speak, but her voice died in her throat when the bone-chilling scream of a horse rent the night air.

* * *

Author's Note: I'm shocked that it's been almost 3 months since I last updated... I'm so sorry.. I'm a horrible person. :/ To be honest, this chapter was just hangin' out on my laptop more than half written... I just got writer's block & insecurity after reading other ppl's wonderful fanfics... :/ But now I know the ending to my story... so it's kinda good that I didn't keep blindly writing... otherwise I would've screwed myself over & have to rewrite some stuff... So yeah... Realizing I shouldn't be making promises when it comes to story writing... but I WOULD like to publish a chapter biweekly...


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